


A Season in Hell

by Larry_say_relax



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larry_say_relax/pseuds/Larry_say_relax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry loses himself in the poetry of Arthur Rimbaud, and as a result becomes infatuated with the tutor who introduced it. Louis finds himself neglected and possibly replaced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Season in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why but the idea of Harry falling for my very favorite poet does it for me big time. I got sick of daydreaming about it and just had to write it out. I plan to continue writing this for myself, however if people actually show an interest in it then I will probably be inspired to write/post much more quickly :] Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoy it! The poetry quoted is taken from “A Season in Hell: Alchemy of the World”, by Arthur Rimbaud. If you haven’t read it, you should.
> 
> This is the first fic I’ve written in years so please, be gentle.
> 
> ~ xoxo Ruby

It all started with the tutor. Louis should have felt relieved that he didn't have to sit there with the other boys everyday, notebooks opened and pens scribbling as Alain taught them maths, history and literature. Alain, a stringy beanpole of a boy only a few years Louis' senior, looked through Louis as though he didn't exist, for no reason at all. Or, no reason Louis could decipher. Maybe it was the fact that Louis didn't require his services but that was hardly Louis' fault. It caused him to feel more than a little bit left out; it made him just a touch resentful, too. He would try to occupy himself while they worked but he couldn't help but repeatedly steal curious glances over at the group, feeling old and bored. He wasn't sure why he cared so much, but Alain's pointed dislike of him and refusal to acknowledge him was one of those rare things that could erase his famously easy smile in a flash.

In order to cheer him up, the boys were always quick to point out to Louis what a pretentious dickhead Alain could be, Harry especially. He and Niall would act out Romeo and Juliet, terribly, mimicking the way Alain criticized them over and over for "lacking passion" during the daily readings they plowed through. Niall was, in fact, famous for creeping up on a bunk with a drawn curtain and yanking it open, shrieking "BUT SOFT! What light through yonder window breaks!" in his ongoing quest to catch somebody wanking. Louis would laugh at their antics and feel included and he would forget, for the time being, how much the absent tutor irked him. None of the boys particularly enjoyed the sessions, so one late afternoon as Harry remained seated after they were dismissed, Louis glanced over, his curiosity piqued. He caught Zayn's wrist as the taller, darker boy made to move past him to get to the lounge. He nodded at the two sitting close, nearly huddled together.

"What's happening over there?" Zayne glanced back then shrugged.

"Harry wanted to speak a bit more about Ophelia." He rolled his eyes. Hamlet was boring. "And now Alain's showing him some more Rambo."

Louis's eyebrows cocked quizzically.

"Rambo?" And Zayn nodded.

"Yeh, some French poet. He sounds creepy, it's all blood and flies and witches." Zayn shook his head. He didn't understand the appeal of Shakespeare or poetry. And he most certainly hadn't liked the few lines Alain had read by that Rambo; it was disturbing and had made him feel nervous and uncomfortable. Louis turned loose his wrist and Zayn continued on to the lounge, throwing himself longways on the sofa. He rested his legs over Liam's lap and allowed himself to be sucked into There's Something About Mary for easily the dozenth time since stepping foot onto the bus three weeks before.

***

Harry was curled up on his side in his bunk, reeling. Rimbaud's depiction of Ophelia had enchanted him, had transformed a sad, flat, faded paper girl into a gorgeously crazed phantom, driven to the "bitter freedom" of death by her own broken heart. His temples thumped with blood as he read over and over of her pale flesh sliding like a silver knife through the cold black water. No book had ever caused such a visceral response in him. He felt as though until today he had been dead, like Ophelia herself, stuck in the same stagnant murky water for all his life without knowing it. The air around his hair and fingertips crackled as he flipped through the book Alain had lent him, his lips moving slowly, silently as he read. He had left poor Ophelia and was now onto something new, something even darker.

_"May it come, may it come,_

_The time we will fall in love with._

_I have been patient for so long_

_That I have no memory left._

_Fear and suffering Have fled to the heavens._

_And an unhealthy thirst darkens my veins."_

Harry stopped then, his brain fuzzy and drunk on those words. He closed his eyes, using his thumb and forefinger to rub at them very slowly. These words had existed, on paper and in this order, for nearly one hundred and fifty years, how was this the first he'd heard of this? He gave his head a little shake and devoured the rest of the page with his eyes, his hands trembling slightly.

_"May it come, may it come,_

_The time we will fall in love with._

_Like the field Given over to oblivion,_

_Growing and flowering_

_With incense and wild grass,_

_And to the fierce buzzing_

_Of very dirty flies."_

For several fleeting confusing moments, Harry thought he was going to cry. There was a tightness in his chest and a wet hot pressure behind his eyes. He snapped the book shut and pressed it under his pillow. Rolling over, he closed his eyes again and focused on his breathing. In and out. Nice and slow. Until the crushing ache in his chest began to ease. The effect the words had on him confused him, pained him, and he loved it. Outside his bunk, he could hear the boys laughing as they played video games and for once he felt no desire to join them. Eyes still closed, he tried to picture what Arthur Rimbaud must have looked like, but with nothing to go on he kept seeing only Alain. He thought about turning on his laptop to dig for more information on the poet but no; not now. He didn't want to be stuck in the present, he didn't want technology to break the spell winding like brambles around his heart, filling the cavity of his chest; he wanted to travel back to when a boy his own age had escaped his tiny village to set the world on fire with his words. He groaned in misery, feeling for the first time since X Factor Boot Camp as if he had accomplished nothing of any importance in his life whatsoever. The words he sang were not his own, nor was the music. He was a puppet, a pretty doll with a gilded voice. What would Rimbaud have to say about that? Nothing good, he was convinced.

Harry turned out his bunk light and fell into a waking dream where Rimbaud wore Alain's face. He struggled to stifle himself as he sweated and strained into his hand, licking the sweat from his upper lip. One bunk below, Louis lay restless and alone. It was unlike his friend to hole up in his bunk, away from everyone else; away from him. He and Harry were always together. They had something going on between them, though it wasn’t something they had spoken about out loud. Nobody spoke about it but everybody knew. While there is much to be said for a satisfying private wank, that was something that he and Harry had been seeing to together for several months now. He knew Harry as well as he knew himself, if not better. The soft creaking of the bunk above his and the muffled hitches of breath clued him in to what was happening up there. Louis ruefully thought to himself that Harry was very fortunate that Niall was in the back, mucking about with the boys.  

He’d excused himself half an hour before, hoping that Harry would hear him shuffle into his bunk and pay him some much-needed attention, however apparently he was the last thing on the other boy’s mind. He listened, arms crossed loosely behind his head, until Harry was still. He wasn’t feeling hurt, exactly...or perhaps he was. No, he decided, he was absolutley hurt. And that was ridiculous and he knew it. There was nothing in their unspoken relationship that stated that Harry was contractually obligated to come in Louis’ mouth every time he fancied an orgasm. Still...Louis didn’t like it. It felt as though something had shifted and he felt a dark creeping anxiety well up in him as the silence above continued. Rolling onto his side he hugged Harry’s pillow close, inhaling his scent. He tugged the soft cobalt blue chenille blanket his mum had sent along with him up to his cheek and closed his eyes. (Harry always said it was the exact same color of Louis’ eyes in the morning, as they slowly woke, whispering softly so as not to wake the others. )

He found himself praying, repeating an aching single-word mantra to no god in particular, and to every god he could think of. It was the only thing in his head at the moment, and it ricocheted through him as he repeated it silently, over and over and over again: _Please. Please. Please._ Because Louis had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps Alain had more prurient interests at heart than just sharing a poem with one of his charges, and if he was correct in this assessment then Harry appeared to be taking the bait. His brow furrowed at the thought; at the thought of Harry letting him fall by the wayside, at the thought of being replaced. Harry was his sun, his nighttime sky, the heaven he’d thought only people in film and books stumbled onto. Coming undone in his arms each night, Louis understood that they had something rare that needed to be protected fiercely. It was unspoken and it was new, but each touch, each stolen kiss, each soft muffled cry fanned the flames and he was determined to keep it burning.Louis was in love with Harry and he felt fairly certain that Harry was falling in love with him. He was so young, though. Maybe too young. Maybe Louis' feelings cut deeper, and that thought terrified, made him feel physically ill. The very idea that what they had could end was something Louis didn't dwell on often, it was far too frightening.

Above him, Harry gazed into nothingness as he lay on his back; knees drawn up, hands loosely laced at the fingers and resting on his flat belly. Lips parted, brow smooth, he thought of all the things he wanted to ask Alain. All the questions that were burning through him would be answered, he just needed to wait. He slipped a hand under the pillow, feeling the reassuringly hard spine of the book. Smiling, he withdrew his hand and yawned. He was lost in thought as he wondered about the poet; his life, his death, and everything he had ever written. It was the first time in months that Louis was not in his immediate thoughts. He even wouldn't notice until morning.


End file.
